


Not Even the Stars

by WraithWriter



Category: Nikolai Series - Leigh Bardugo, The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Dancing, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Feelings, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Music, dance, going overboard with the tags cuz why not, nikolai lantsov is a brilliant dancer, the two most powerful people in ravka worrying for each other, zoyalai
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-29
Updated: 2019-08-29
Packaged: 2020-09-29 19:04:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,583
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20440994
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WraithWriter/pseuds/WraithWriter
Summary: I wasn’t looking to dance, but your soul sang a song I couldn’t resist.





	1. Chapter 1

The rains were relentless.

Nonstop for days on end, so that even Ravka’s so-called Storm Witch was losing patience. She paces between their desks now, kefta neatly draped over a chair back. One can only pick through the never-ending droves of correspondence, reports, and diplomatic requests for so long before gouging their eyes out becomes an appealing alternative.

It is during times like this that Nikolai can be found fiddling with the contraption on one of the office tables, twisting and pushing its many sliders and dials.

The first few times he’d insisted on setting a soundtrack to matters of state, Zoya had resisted, claiming the music to be a distraction. Nowadays, though, she relents - albeit with a disapproving shake of the head, black curls swaying.

The machine’s accompanying large, grooved discs are packed neatly in a crate stowed under the table. Their sleeves are printed with all manner of names and images, no doubt accumulated during his travels as privateer. Some of the sleeves are worn more than others, and lovingly so; there is no denying which are his favorites.

It’s one of these that he selects today - and turns to near full volume, much to his general’s eternal chagrin.

Mouthing the words with excessive enthusiasm, he shuffles over to where she stands, setting papers in order. Zoya is unsure of whether to be amused or alarmed, but settles for pinching the bridge of her nose and a heaving sigh.

Caught somewhere between Kerch theatre and Zemeni folk, it is almost exhaustingly jubilant, yet somehow  _ exactly  _ the kind of tune she’d expect this ridiculous boy-monarch to enjoy.

It’s only when he makes to take her hands from the stack she is currently sorting that she realizes his intentions.

“Nikolai Lantsov, I swear to the Saints, I will rip the air from your lungs and kill you where you stand.”

He’s grinning like an idiot, though, and shows no signs of relenting. “Regicide is not part of your repertoire, Nazyalensky. Neither is deference to any Saint.”

By now he’s managed to lead her from behind the desk, a single hand looped around her wrists. And maybe it's because he’s so rarely himself these days, or because she misses that roguish wink and insufferable grin, but she lets him.

But she’s stiff when he takes her hands in his, without a trace of her usual surety - hesitant and oh-so-wary.

“Don’t tell me you don’t dance, Commander.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course I dance, b - ”

“But not like this?” A goading arch of his brow. “How, then? In all your finery, pressed silk kefta, lords and ladies and a full orchestra ensemble?”

“Do fuck off, Your Highness.”

His laughter is as bright as any of the Sun Summoner’s rays.

A nod to the sheets of rain and howling winds lashing at the windows. “Then allow me the pleasure of teaching you how to dance when not even the stars are watching.”

It takes some persuasion, but the King of Ravka is nothing if not enduring. Soon enough she is allowing him to lead her through all manner of movements, and he is shocked by every smile that he cannot help but answer with one of his own. She meets him step for step, not so much as stumbling as he spins her out and draws her back in.

At a pause in the music, he makes to dip her towards the ground, but the warning grip at his nape has him stopping short. “Drop me, Nikolai, and I’ll skin you alive.” The threat is made empty, though, by the quiet joy on her face, clear despite her best efforts to conceal it. Still, he takes care in bracing his hand between her shoulder blades. 

“Always with the threats,” He tuts, righting her with a look of feigned disapproval. “You would be hard pressed to find a better dancing partner.”

Her only reply is a smack upside the head.

When the music begins to fade and her eyes drift shut with a contented hum, he finds it impossible to look away.

Saints, she’s beautiful like this.

She’s beautiful always, of course. But unrestrained and radiant, for once completely at ease, Nikolai thinks she has never been more so.

The lightness of her laugh makes his heart soar. “Your pardon, Majesty, but I think I may be drunk.”

Perhaps it speaks to the strains of an already demanding job, only magnified by the presence in the palace dungeons, but she cannot recall the last time she felt so  _ free _ .

His smile is audible, breath warm at her forehead. “I can’t imagine what on, General.”

_ This. _

_ You. _

The words that jump to the forefront of her mind without so much as a second’s deliberation have her halting mid-step. Zoya is drawing back a moment later, and he ignores the rush of cold that swallows where she had been. The beating of rain is heavy amidst the lingering notes of the song. 

“I -” She straightens her blouse and hurriedly tucks escaped strands of ebony behind her ears. He all but feels the reluctance returning, the shed armour of the general clicking back into place.

“Thank you.”

“Of course,” He sketches a bow. “My lady.”

He watches as she hesitates, breathless, before nodding once, returning to the stack of reports in disarray.

Turning to lift the needle from the record, the king is hardly able to contain a grin - triumphant, yes, but relieved as well.

For there is a flush high on her cheeks and a light in her eyes he feared had dulled.


	2. Chapter 2

The late afternoon is quiet but for the faint chattering of courtiers on the grounds below, and Zoya cannot help the many times she glances his way, the shuffling of papers their ever-present companion. Cannot help longing for the unshakable composure she had questioned those many weeks ago.

The furrow between his brows was near constant today, the set of his mouth more strained. He’d taken up a nervous jumping in his leg, where control over the characteristic restlessness was usually so well managed. More than once she’d seen Genya reach to settle it with a hand on his knee during their earlier slew of meetings. And they all knew Nikolai would never complain outright, but the bruises under his eyes, masterfully tailored away, were clear enough indicators of the king’s fatigue.

He would never admit - not even to his most trusted advisors, his friends - that he was afraid to sleep too long, too heavily.

Afraid to wake with another’s blood in his mouth.

The record he lowers to the player today is not of the lively tune from the other night, but rather something distinctly more maudlin. Hands braced on the edge of the desk, Nikolai stands head bowed, perhaps allowing the music to wash over and through him.

Perhaps not hearing it at all.

She sees when she approaches that his eyes are closed, and it is only when he feels the fingers at his wrist that he glances at her sidelong.

He says nothing as Zoya leads him to the very place he all but dragged her not a week before. Outside the sitting room window the palace gardens are gilded amber, as if coated in the richest of golden syrups.

She lifts his hand to the curve of her lower back and laces their fingers at his hip.

“What’s this?” he murmurs, noting the step she takes to close the distance between them.

“Dancing while the stars aren’t watching, or whatever ridiculous bit of poetry you spouted the other night.”

A smile that just barely reaches hazel eyes.

“I appreciate the gesture, Zoya, but I -” 

“No.”

She’s cutting him off with a shake of her head, because that is resignation in his voice and she can’t stand the ache it spikes in her chest. “You don’t get to say ‘no’.”

Nikolai looks at her for a long moment but doesn’t make to pull away, only traces his thumb over the slight groove of her spine. Notes the raised edge of one of those scars.

One heavy step leads into another, until the weight of all that was and is and will be seems to fade with the day’s light.

They stay that way for what feels like both seconds and an eternity all at once, swaying, his lips just shy of her hairline.

A calmness seems to settle over him, a steadiness that rivals the uneasy quiet of late.

When she slips her arms around his waist, the puff of a weak laugh ruffles the crown of her head. “How pathetic I must be for you to pity me, Nazyalensky.”

He starts slightly at the rest of her brow on his chest, but it takes only a second for his arms find their way around her, fingers twined in the ends of silky black hair. He marvels at the simple act, that he has been allowed this closeness.

She’s warm. And he would like nothing more than to stay here, wrapped in the wildflower scent of her, where he finds it so very easy to be selfish.

To not think of the Shu or Kerch. To ignore Fjerda and Ravka itself.

To see them different from the way they have been made to be.

Not the Grisha general with storms wreathing her hands, or the king with a country’s breath and blood in his.

But the girl with the wind in her heart.

And the boy with the sea in his soul.

**Author's Note:**

> Write in the comments what song you imagine playing; I'm curious! It could be literally anything.


End file.
